


Drunker Than High School

by CharacterDevelopment



Series: Secrets and Poetry [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bedrooms, College, Future Fic, M/M, Miscommunication, Mornings, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharacterDevelopment/pseuds/CharacterDevelopment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the story goes: that Stiles was wrong, and Derek was good, and they both felt guilty as hell for things that were probably not directly their fault. But guilt is not always rational, and pride is an addiction, and good is a relative thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunker Than High School

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said I wasn't continuing this?
> 
> Ahahaha haha ha.
> 
> I was so naive.

 

The thing about Derek’s body is that it fits him.

It curves to every sharp line, each jagged edge, respectively. The hard core, the deep indents, the muscle, the skin, the bone, they all fit. They undulate, build up layer by layer, cover the soft insides. His body is, as all bodies are, useful; for running, and jumping, building, and destroying. His fingers grip the soil beneath his feet, dirt sticks between the cells of his finger pads. He’s real, alive, a man in the purest form of the definition, of the pretty Y chromosome.

Derek’s body is a canvas, a pale board that gets splattered from time to time with grime and darker substance, only to be clean again later on. It’s a canvas that bleeds the paint out from within, a beautiful, dark red color. Because Derek’s canvas has always been beautiful, there has never been a doubt in the matter. 

But the prettiest, the _best_ part of Derek, has always been his insides. And Derek would smack Stiles upside the head if he ever admitted it, because it’s sappy, but whatever, fuck it. It’s true. Because, well, because, Derek’s body fits him. It’s a shield. It protects, layer by layer, bone upon bone, muscle, sinew, all protection; protects his insides, his weaknesses, his heart.

 

In the beginning, Stiles sometimes thought that Derek’s heart had been burned out of him, like his family; that it had been swallowed up by flames, devoured by the heat. But Stiles thinks a lot of shitty things. He was wrong, of course, he was very wrong, but the guilt, he thinks, nearly did it. Nearly consumed him. Stiles gets that better than he most likely should.

And so the story goes: that Stiles was wrong, and Derek was good, and they both felt guilty as hell for things that were probably not directly their fault. But guilt is not always rational, and pride is an addiction, and good is a relative thing. Fucked up, is a good monomer for their relationship, it’s what binds them together, instinctually, chemically. Hell’s angels, paradoxes, humans, wolves, all mixed together, warped and tangled in each other’s bodies and minds and mouths.

 

A boy and his wolf. Stiles likes to call himself Little Red Riding Hood because he’s twisted, and sick, and it’s _ironic._ Derek likes to call him an idiot, but he’ll smile because it’s Stiles and that’s a weakness, in and of itself. See, Derek’s insides are soft and squishy and Stiles knows this, knows where to push and prod and get a reaction. They’ve known each other for years and Stiles is smart and intuitive and he listens.

It was the listening that got them where they are now. Derek listening to Stiles’s heartbeat and Stiles listening to Derek’s silence and the words he put in between. And somewhere along the line, Stiles turned 18. And he was scared of going away and moving on and leaving things behind and he was tired. And he’d told Derek that if he went away, he didn’t think he’d be coming back. And that was scary, because he was 18 and stupid and new.

And maybe it had been the Henley, or the bruises under his eyes, or the way he’d said, “Please.” But in the end it doesn’t matter, because they’d crashed landed into one another at high speeds and it was fucked up and twisted and perfect and good. It was what he needed, mostly likely what they both needed.

 

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s what he still needs. _Need_ is a relative term for the ache inside his chest. _Want_ is probably better, but that’s a little pathetic, to want Derek to fuck all the bad things from inside him. To use his body to forcefully remove the panic and the fear and the regret from Stiles’s skin, to sweat out each negative thought and action he has ever produced. Because that, _that_ is sad, and pathetic, and totally, and completely Stiles’s life in a nutshell.

But, but Derek is good. And silent and likes to hold Stiles’s jaw and search his face like there’s something hidden in the planes when Stiles buries his way inside him. Derek is soft and warm and tight and perfect. And Stiles cries the first time and comes too early and collapses into Derek’s chest before he can even reciprocate. Derek doesn’t say anything though, just suffocates Stiles in his arms until there’s no more room for his chest to hiccup.

Derek likes to touch, likes to run his fingers down Stiles’s back, leave bruises shaped liked incisors on his throat. Stiles hasn’t figured out if it’s a possessive thing or some deeper insecurity, like maybe he thinks he won’t get the chance to do it tomorrow, like he thinks Stiles will just disappear, slip between his fingers one day. Makes sense, he guesses. He’ll leave soon. But he’s pretty sure he’s coming back, he wants to come back.

 

Mornings are Stiles’s favorite. Because they’re spent in Derek’s bed and tangled sheets and the warmth of the spring air. Stiles likes to think they’re Derek’s favorite too. But that might just be because Derek likes to fuck in the mornings. Likes to try out new positions and see how flexible Stiles’s legs are and Stiles can’t really complain. Because Derek is good and it makes him happy.

Sometimes Derek will lay his head on Stiles’s chest and just listen to his heartbeat while Stiles talks. That’s—that’s good, most likely means that this is _something_ , that whatever they’re doing is something more than sex. Because Stiles likes sex, likes it every day, multiple times, in many different positions, but it only lasts so long before the weight settles back on his chest and things like thinking and going over everything he does and has ever done hurts.

Stiles has a large insecurity called self-doubt that is shackled to his ankles and makes things slow and sluggish. It makes him overcompensate, makes him flail about and talk a mile a minute, constantly hoping to outrun his chains. It’s stupid and unrealistic and, again, pathetic. Stiles is pathetic, he knows it, his classmates knows it, the whole world if that were possible would know it.

He doesn’t think Derek has realized it yet, that Stiles probably isn’t worth it, that he should find someone else to leave his marks on. Because he keeps coming back, keeps leaving bruises, and clawing his way down Stiles’s spine. He keeps mapping out Stiles’s skin with his tongue like some kind of prayer. Stiles has noticed, because Stiles is smart and intuitive and he watches just as well as he listens. Because Derek takes the same path down Stiles’s abdomen every time like it’s a ritual. Stiles hasn’t deciphered exactly what it means yet, but he will. He hopes.

 

He leaves tomorrow. He hopes he’s coming back.

 

Derek’s body fits him. Because it’s beautiful and warm and silent. And Stiles never took him for a poetry kind of guy, much less a French poetry kind of guy, but in the end it kind of fits. Fits like his muscle and his skin and his tattoo. Fits like the way Derek wraps him up in his arms and legs and sheets when Stiles comes home from school in the summer. Fits like all the things he’s never said and the things he ends up saying.

Like,“I killed my whole family,” and, “I haven’t had sex before you in seven years,” and, “Somewhere along the line, I think I fell in love with you. _”_

His body fits like the way Stiles fell into his arms and his bed and his heart. Because Stiles is still a sap and Little Red Riding Hood and this time it’s not exactly so ironic.

 

He gets the poem tattooed on a Saturday morning. So does Derek.

They’re a little pathetic. But it’s good. They’re good, the boy and his wolf.

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> This wrote itself in about 3 hours.
> 
> Asbsdfsbdfsdvsdv, ugh.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://www.characterdevelopmentwrites.tumblr.com)


End file.
